The Queen of Ashes
by bambithebandit
Summary: Just a rough draft. Digging into the mind of Daenerys Targaryan. Non-canon compliant and may be NSFW.
1. Twelve

Daenerys could recall the first time she gazed upon the sheer enormity of the Dothraki army. Waves upon waves of mounted horsemen, wielding blades as wicked and sharply-curved as the sickle moon in the night sky. She could still hear the deafening current of their battle cries, if she closed her eyes. The thunder of hooves that shook the ground as they transformed into one vast, solitary predator on the prowl. Thousands of them. And they'd poured over the crest of that jagged hillside like blood, spilling from the heart of a bone-deep wound.

_And then there were twelve._

She held her head high, her lips pressed taut. Like the line of a scar, ragged in the flesh. If she never wavered, then those who followed her would never have reason to doubt in the undying strength of their queen.

And yet, they were proud. Just as she was. They had always been just this proud, their eyes set deep and hard within their faces that were disguised beneath their masks of warpaint. She swallowed.

_"You have brought summer to this frigid landscape,"_ She told them, in the mother tongue that turned their blood into liquid flame. _"You are the heroes of the ice and fire."_

She wished she could confide in them. She wished—for a fleeting moment—she could tell them the truth. That she was brittle and broken by the cold and the snow. That their victory tasted too much like iron and blood, and loss and defeat—and sacrifice, gone too unnoticed to have even mattered.

But the last of the Dothraki were silent and impassive, their facades broken only by the fissure of violence.

_And victory was as still and tranquil as a tomb._

_~_


	2. Dreams

She found Missandei in the courtyard outside the guards hall, flurries of snow drifting softly down into her dark hair. The girl wore a sweeping black coat over an elegant gown, the same color as fallen ash.

"How is he?" She demanded, and Missandei's eyes grew dark with grief. Once, Dany had taken her for a simple handmaiden.

Now, she knew her only as a friend.

"He sleeps, your Grace."

Missandei's tone was quiet and carefully measured. She lacked the callous nature of the Dothraki, as well as the inscrutable veneer of the Unsullied. She was soft as pond water, a creature of grace and peace.

Daenerys took her cold hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

"He will wake to the dawn," She said, with a fierceness that shook them both. "The dawn that follows the Long Night will paint the northern skies like dragon fire."

"My love will wake to the summer that never ends." Missandei agreed, the hope glimmering silver like tears in her lashes.

Neither of them spoke what they were thinking; that a second war loomed close on the horizon.

Greyworm had slept for weeks now. He was trapped in the induced comatose of the maester's draught. He _needed_ to sleep. His wounds would never recover otherwise. Nor would his mind.

Dany hoped his slumber was deep and dark and most of all, _dreamless_. In the aftermath of the Long Night, nothing had proven more unsettling than the dreams.

She left the courtyard, tracing her own footsteps down the shadowy corridors of Winterfell. It was mostly deserted, save for the occasional chambermaid passing through. Anyone she encountered inclined their heads respectfully, but they never failed to divert their gazes, all the same. She wore their suspicions like a crown.


	3. Envy

The First Keep was the oldest tower in the castle. Once, it had served as the foundation upon which the rest of the Winterfell stronghold was built. But for hundreds of years, it had lain dormant—abandoned and left to crumble down around itself. It was only quite recently that the Starks had ordered it rebuilt, to serve as their foreign commander's chambers.

_And to prepare for the war that was to come._

The war that had come and gone and never bothered to touch the rugged stones that made up that ancient tower.

The Keep contained no fitting quarters for a queen, but Dany didn't mind. She had not been born royalty, and so it seemed the simple pleasures of such conveniences were often lost on her.

She may have disliked how far the tower was from the guest house where her army was lodged—and how _close_ it was to the crypts—but she was glad for the solitude. It was the only place in the entire castle the servants and courtiers seemed to avoid.

She'd been spending more and more of her time, secluded in the ancient keep. The North filled Dany with a strange apprehension—a wistfulness she could not seem to shake. There was some intuition, deeply-ingrained and ever-present in her womb, that this foreign land would be her undoing.

~

A fortnight had passed since the Long Night and still, Daenerys found herself unable to shake the nightmares. She could hear the whisper of their passage across the flat battleground of snow, stretching from the fringe of trees on the northern perimeter, to the foot of the wall that bordered Winterfell. She could still _feel_ the chill of death that permeated the atmosphere in their wake.

It was over. The Long Night had come to an end. Despite all the fear and hopelessness the onslaught of the dead had brought, the living had won.

But the dead had left their mark.

She thought of Viserion, fleetingly, and with a shudder. His eyes had taken on that same vacant, eerie blue stare. He hadn't even recognized her. He hadn't even recognized his own brothers.

She sighed. Maybe she loathed this place because it represented so much loss for her. Either way—try as she might—she could not force herself to enjoy the north. Winterfell marked its place in history with death and destruction. It lacked the charm Jon had implied, when he'd spoken fondly of his childhood home. It lacked the grace of its own doctrine, the hospitality of a place where she could feel _welcome_.

More than anything, it lacked warmth.

She knew the castle had been built atop hot springs, to keep the pipes—and residents—from freezing. Still yet, Dany's chamber was drafty and barren. The winds in the north were unforgiving—even after the Long Night and the promise of summer—clawing their way beneath the glass panes of the windows. Smiting the torches in their brass brackets.

It was moments like these that she envied Missandei, knowing the handmaiden was nestled close to the man she loved. The girl had left his side only sparingly, in the days following the war. Unlike the flames that perished beneath the intrusive currents of wind—blown in from the outer walls of House Stark—Greyworm's loyalty had never wavered. In his fleeting moment of weakness, Missandei was determined to return the favor.

Envy was a toxic trait Dany was largely unfamiliar with. Perhaps, then, she was only lonely.

Jon's absence weighed heavily in her mind, though she knew he needed time to process all that he'd learned. She knew exactly how it felt, to suddenly and painfully have a bandage ripped away. To learn you'd lived all your life, trapped in the belly of deceit. She herself had seen her lifelong illusions torn to shreds. Beginning with Viserys.

_And ending here, in the frigid north. With Jon Snow._

She missed him. _Gods_, did she miss him. The void within her echoed like an empty tomb. She knew all too well he could fill it, with life and flesh and warmth.

If only _he_ needed a space, the way she needed a filler.


	4. Captivity

She tried to visit Drogon and Rhaegal, each night before she retired to her chambers. The dragons slept in the Godswood, where the ancient trees encircled the yard—so dense that even the cold winds of a winter the Starks had always known was coming—could not reach them.

If ever the nightmares broke through the shallow surface of her consciousness, Dany knew to seek them out, winding her way down flights of spiral stairs and unlit corridors. The hammering drumbeat of her troubled heart led the way.

The pair brought a calming warmth back into her bones. She could watch them for hours, curled up against one another for mutual heat. They reminded her of stable cats, innocent and content, nestled together in the hay.

The northerners feared them, distrusted them much as they distrusted the Dragon Queen whose legacy they carried on the leathery spans of their wings. And the army she'd brought, from over the sea. It mattered little that they'd fought alongside the armies of the north to end the Long Night. It mattered not at all, that Dany herself had crested an icy wave of terror, to face down the King of Night.

Whenever she remembered the way his pale, unnerving eyes had paralyzed her, she thought of the first time she'd watched a storm madden the waves on the sea. She'd felt so similarly powerless. She'd feared for her own life. And the lives of her people.

~

Drogon stretched his neck out with a dramatic sigh that made the leaves of the great weir-wood tree tremor like harp strings. Reminding her not to lose herself in the waking nightmare of the past. She relaxed her tense shoulders gratefully. The dragon's yellow eyes watched her, half-open. Half-closed.

Dany smiled, though whether the gesture ever reached her eyes, she wasn't certain.

Her children had despised the north, at first. Now they'd grown accustomed to the wind and snow. More so even than Dany herself. They were conquerors, she realized with a shiver. Wherever they landed, they were quick to settle.

Whether or not the natives welcomed them with open arms.

"How could anyone not see how beautiful you are?" She wondered aloud, the sadness in her tone surprising even her.

Rhaegal cocked his head to the side, almost like a puppy. He struck a gentle, quavering note, deep in the hollow of his throat. She skimmed her fingertips down the side of his neck, admiring the seamless ripple of emerald and gold scales, as he leaned into her touch.

She remembered how she'd fought them, once. How she'd chained them away, for burning a child. An innocent child.

It was like fighting the fire within herself.

She wondered what that child might have been, had he not met his fate prematurely from an adolescent Drogon. She recalled how she'd confronted the dragon, and for the first time since he'd hatched in the fire of her own rebirth, she'd felt genuine _fear_. She'd been afraid he would hurt her, maddened by captivity.

Instead he'd simply roared down over her small frame. She'd steadied him with her gaze. She'd gentled them both, and their brother as well, with her own willpower.

Drogon cast his serene yellow gaze down at her now, less hostile than her memories would lead her to believe.

_Fire cannot kill a dragon._

Captivity, on the other hand, certainly could.

~


End file.
